


Where the sun comes up about ten in the morning

by Moonshine_Givens



Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonshine_Givens/pseuds/Moonshine_Givens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are all murderers here, so many lives ended by those six hands. They should be drinking blood with those pancakes, the hungry beasts they are, destroying and eating, animals of the violence. Raylan shouldn’t be smiling back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the sun comes up about ten in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Small tired thing. it's five in the morning, so i hope you just ignore my mistakes. thank you.

“...it’ll rain today, do you?”

There is a reason why morning afters are so feared: things are awkward and tend to go wrong on the day after. The disorientation of it all... You’re feeling like shit, your mouth is dry, your head’s spinning, and you smell funny: like cigarettes, sweat and beer. On bad days, you still smell like the sex you regret having. The bed is not comfortable, and the only reason you can point out is that it’s not yours, so it scratches your body. You haven’t slept enough yet, but can’t resume your rest, since your mind is dying to get you out of here. You don’t want to wear last night’s clothes, but there’s nothing else to cover your skin, and you’re already too naked. And you can’t go back to sleep.

“I don’t suppose it will, baby, no. The weather should keep.”

But it would be worst with those two, Raylan could already tell. He could tell from the moment he knew he was awake in a bed that wasn’t his, but didn’t felt lost or homeless. He could only felt awake. Awake all over his thumbs and his fingernails, awake in his wrists and in his knees; conscious running through his collarbones and his teeth. Awake behind his eyelids. He could tell he was awake and he could tell it was Ava and Boyd, like it couldn’t be anyone else, like it would be impossible to not be those two.

“You sure you wanna eat another banana, Boyd?”

And he didn’t felt tired or worn out, but better rested than if he would have slept at his own bed. Maybe sleeping upstairs from a bar would do that do you: your bed feels like a morning after bed every time, and you can never put away the feeling, and has to walk around wrong in your skin. But it shouldn’t be enough to make the Crowder’s couch a better shelter.

He could stretch his limbs and not feel like dying, just like living, his blood pumping and his muscles relaxed.

His body was asking him to make it last, please, Raylan, make it last, don’t walk away now. Stay.

“I should hope you’re not callin’ me fat, honey, over one extra fruit!”

The light was not blinding and painful, just all around at once. It was not an explosion of colors and being suddenly dragged back to the world – it was a slow understanding that his eyes could open, and that he could see, and that the world was not just sound but image as well. And then the small movement of the white lace curtain over the window left open, the quiet sunshine over the television, the shelters, the dining table. The sun light in the kitchen with Boyd and Ava, a third friend and companion. Her golden hair full of light. Raylan moaned: he could feel the blood on his fingertips.

“Oh, you’ll know when I’m calling you fat, mister.”

They could move like they were dancing, just to have breakfast. Raylan remembers dancing the night before. He was really very much drunk. He thinks he danced with Ava, but he’s not exactly sure he didn’t had his arms around Boyd’s neck, the man’s breath against his cheek, spiky black hair between his fingers.

He’s fairly sure he didn’t sleep with anyone last night.

His clothes are fresh and warm only from sleeping, and also not his: a plain shirt e sleeping pants that smell like washing machines and faintly of Boyd. He must have showered last night, and that’s why he can’t feel any of the giving smells of hangover in his skin. Someone must have shampooed his hair hard so he can’t feel the cigarettes and smoke on it today, and everything smells like soap.

The clock shows it’s 10:20 in the morning already, too late to drive back ‘till Lexington and still go to work, and Raylan doesn’t wanna leave.

Neither Boyd nor Ava talks directly to him when he joins them in the kitchen, but they’re not ignoring him. They give him time to awake, to be alive, greeting with small smiles and muttering sounds: we’re all here, and that’s good, so let’s pray in silence.

There are three plates and three glasses at the table, and Raylan is not sure why he knows where the orange juice is, but he knows where it is, and he pours some for him and Boyd, but none for Ava – she’s having coffee, thanks.

She looks older. Not in a tired or dying way, but the way some women get after they have a child: she looks wiser and calmer and stronger all around, like she’s not wondering about Raylan anymore, because she knows him already, inside out. And she’s not afraid of future troubles with the law or with the crime, she’s not afraid of getting shot or killed or arrested, she’s not crying over killing Bowman or anyone else. She’s full and certain now, certain of what Raylan can’t tell, but she’s not searching anymore.

Boyd just looks happy, the insane happiness only he can feel and not get locked up for it, and Raylan is smiling back.

They are all murderers here, so many lives ended by those six hands. They should be drinking blood with those pancakes, the hungry beasts they are, destroying and eating, animals of the violence. Raylan shouldn’t be smiling back.

(When he started drinking whiskey like it was grape juice last night on Boyd’s bar, he thought two things could happen: someone was going to kill him while he was too drunk to say anything about it; or Boyd would kick him out in the dark, pissed and violent. There would be no smiles or promises in the morning after.)

(He should have been expecting the worse, since this was so much more than just dying in a long night)

He wanted to tell them he was having trouble saying no, but that he just could not say yes. He wanted to thank them for not being left outside, for not smelling like puke, for not having a hangover. He wanted to remember them that they were not soft, they were not loving, they were not a normal couple with hearts in their eyes. Raylan wished to remind that a couple is two, not three, and that he shouldn’t be asking.

“There's Boyd’s bacon and some pancakes, and there’s no fruit to be eat since Boyd ate it all. What will it be, Raylan?”

There was a choice there to be taken, or the illusion of a choice. But it was already too late to drive back, and Raylan’s only answer was yes.

**Author's Note:**

> want to yell at me for ruining you OT3? my blog is ohthati.tumblr.com . thanks for reading it!


End file.
